


Convenience Wars

by Pratzelwurm



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Convenience Store, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humour, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Rating May Change, Recreational Drug Use, here come the content warnings, this is a comedy I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-29 21:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pratzelwurm/pseuds/Pratzelwurm
Summary: In a small west Texas highway town, the disgruntled employees of two rival gas stations compete for relevance on a broader scale.





	1. Why Are We Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Repost and touchup of a fic I started in 2017 and never finished, but am now working on again.
> 
> This fic is not a romance at it's core, but it does have shipping in it. I tagged Grimmons and Chex, but a few other relationships will come up (namely: Tuckington, Docnut, and Yorkolina). I won't put them in the tags unless they end up getting more attention from the narrative than I'm currently planning, though, because I'm not a fan of tag spam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all have to start somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyy remember when I first posted this two years ago and then got too busy to work on it and then ended up abandoning it? Well, it's back. And with a REAL plot this time.
> 
> I touched up what I already had of the first few chapters and am working on the outline, but I wanted to post this as kind of a taste-tester. There's a few things that need to be settled down before I start churning out regular updates.
> 
> I'm not sure the level of seriousness I want to get into here, so I haven't added any content warnings yet, but if shit gets too real in my draft then I'll update the tags. So, this is your preemptive warning that this fic might not be 100% sunshine and rainbows. It's still MOSTLY a comedic work, but I can never resist a little bit of good-old-fashioned angst; it's what I thrive off of.
> 
> EDIT 05/18/2019: A few minor edits for continuity's sake, plus I fixed up the tags and, predictably, added some content warnings.
> 
> Last foreword: I don't really have any friends who know RvB enough to beta for me, so forgive me if I don't catch all of my typos or spelling mistakes lol

Blood Gulch, Texas is not known for its mild summers. It isn't known much for anything, really. Sure, there's the state park, the town's namesake, but anything else nearby is easily overlooked by the thousands of vehicles that speed along the interstate on the daily. It's a highway town, through and through. Aside from the park, the closest point of interest is the university, but even that's about four miles south of the town itself.

This particular summer is especially harsh. It is early July, and the temperature has been dancing along the low hundreds for the past week. Dry heat hangs in the air like a thick blanket, the sluggish haze foretelling of the yearly drought that will soon arrive. There have already been reports of a few small brush fires out in the foothills.

Pastures of yellowing grass texture themselves with scraggles of brush, scattered trees, and distant herds of cattle, stretching out as far as the walls of the red canyon that paints the horizon — a natural border between the state park and the surrounding area. The interstate cuts through the Texan landscape like an old scar, stretching endlessly in either direction until eventually intersecting with the only road that leads into the town proper, albeit still a mile away. At these crossroads, two small stores are stationed kitty-corner from one another, and are easily the only structures in sight.

In one of these buildings, Dexter Grif is currently leaning against the cigarette display behind the register, his arms folded over his chest and his head tilted back towards the ceiling. He's had only three customers in the past hour, and the only sounds in the store are the low drone of the coolers and the buzzing of the outdated AC unit. Radio's been busted for months. The heat is making him more tired than usual, but his shift isn't over for another four hours.

"Hey," his coworker, Simmons, says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"You ever wonder why we're here?"

"It's one of life's greatest mysteries, isn't it? Why _are_ we here?"

Simmons, who had been fronting the items on one of the snack aisles, pauses and looks over at him, frowning. "What? I mean why are we _here_ , working in this store."

"Oh, uh, right. We need jobs?"

"Yeah, but we're out in the middle of nowhere! At most we have only six customers at a time. Between us and the Blues, how do we even stay in business?"

Grif shrugs. "Not my problem. As long as I keep getting a paycheck, I don't really care. Besides, people use the pumps all the time."

"I guess that's true. Still, what's the point of having two gas stations?"

"Competition?"

"But I mean, even if one of us goes out of business, the other will still just be a shitty convenience store in the middle of a shitty canyon, maybe with _slightly_ more customers. Whoopdee-fucking-doo."

"Dude, you are thinking way too hard about this."

Simmons sighs, going back to shuffling around the bags and boxes. Grif goes back to thinking about how Simmons is the only thing standing between him and taking a nap with the backstock.

The two of them had sort of known each other growing up — it's kind of hard _not_ to know someone when you live in a town this small — and had gotten hired around the same time back in April. At first, they hadn't gotten along much, but after Hammer quit and they were the only two left working afternoon shifts, they had sort of bonded out of sheer proximity. After all, you can't spend more than twenty hours a week with someone without at least learning to tolerate them.

They're opposites in a lot of ways, Simmons thinks. Appearance, personality, work ethic... the last one is the thing that really bothers him. He doesn't understand how someone can just _not care_ about doing a good job. Grif is always cutting corners and finding ways out of actually working, yet he's never late, and makes sure to clock in and out exactly on time, which somehow just makes Simmons even more frustrated.

Grif, on the other hand, thinks that Simmons really needs to lighten up. It's a fucking part-time job, and they barely get paid enough to do what's in their job description, let alone anything else. As far as he's concerned, the only things he's actually _required_ to do are to ring up customers and make sure the store doesn't look like a complete piece of shit. Maybe if Simmons lost the stick up his ass and spent less time sucking up to their boss, he might actually be bearable to work with.

The sudden ring of the store phone interrupts the silence.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Simmons asks, not bothering to look up from the bags of chips he's FIFOing.

Grif doesn't move. "I answered it last time."

"But you're not even doing anything! And the phone is right next to you!"

"You have legs, don't you? Besides, taking turns was your idea."

"Only because you refused to ever answer it otherwise!"

"Ring ring, Simmons."

"Ugh, _fine_."

Simmons marches over behind the counter and snatches up the phone, taking a moment to breathe out his irritation before answering in a mechanically polite tone, "Thank you for calling Red's Quick Stop, this is Dick, how may I assist you today?"

"Simmons!" a gruff voice shouts through the speaker, loud enough for both of them to hear.

Simmons scrunches his face at the volume and holds the phone further away from his ear. "Oh, hey Sarge. Did you need something?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, our numbers have been getting dangerously low."

"You mean since Hammer left?"

"Precisely! We're being outnumbered by our enemies, and that puts us at a severe tactical disadvantage!"

"Respectfully, sir, they have the same number of employees as we do."

"And that simply won't stand. We have to maintain superiority! Who knows what those diabolical fiends might do if we give them any indication of weakness?"

"I'm pretty sure they don't care," Grif calls over.

"Can it, dirtbag! Simmons, I want you to replace Grif's soda with gasoline."

"With pleasure, sir!"

"I can still hear you!"

"As I was saying," Sarge continues, ignoring Grif, "to prevent the Blues from gaining the upper hand, I've decided to call in reinforcements."

"So… you hired someone else to work here?" Simmons asks, trying to translate the coded speech.

"The new recruit should arrive tomorrow afternoon, and I'm counting on you two to show him the ropes!"

"Uh, sir, shouldn't you be the one to train him? Grif and I have only been working here for three months."

"Don't be ridiculous, Private. 'Course I'll be training him."

"But you just said—"

"Adaptability is one of the best skills you can have! It's a war out there, Simmons, and you have to be ready for anything. And I mean anything! Which is why I'll be training him via immersion!"

"Okay, but sir—"

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to catch up on my paperwork. Good luck, Private!"

 _Click_.

"Great," Simmons says dryly, placing the phone back into the receiver.

"How do you even understand what he's talking about half the time?" Grif asks.

"Context clues, mostly," Simmons shrugs. "Also, my granddad was in the army, so I know some of the terminology."

"Why does he call us 'privates'?"

"It's the lowest rank of soldier, which I guess makes sense, with us being the lowest rank of employee. Although, technically, I outrank you, so I would be Private Second Class. Or First Class."

" _Outrank?_ Since when?"

"Since Sarge appointed me as second-shift leader."

"Seriously? You're such a kiss-ass."

"Part of being in charge means I can write you up for disrespecting me."

"Sure, like that's gonna do anything. You're not even a real manager! Besides, what's the point of you being in charge if I'm the only other employee here?"

"Not anymore. The new guy starts tomorrow, remember?"

"Oh, right. I am _not_ looking forward to that."

 

* * *

 

"I wonder what the Reds are doing," Tucker says, leaning forward with his elbows propped up on the front counter.

"Why?" Church scoffs from the second register, looking up from his phone with an almost disgusted expression.

"I dunno. I'm curious?"

"They're probably just standing in there and talking. You know, like they always do?"

"How do you know? They could be doing something different today."

"Like what?"

Tucker thinks for a moment.

"Maybe they're sitting and talking."

"I fucking hate you."

Tucker grins. Church deepens his permanent scowl.

"Why do you keep calling them the 'Reds', anyways?"

"That Sarge guy calls us the 'Blues'; I thought it was fitting."

"It's fucking stupid, is what it is," Church snaps.

"But you knew who I meant," Tucker points out.

"That doesn't make it any less stupid. What the hell do we need code-names for?"

"Well, what would you call them then?"

"I don't know, how about 'those assholes across the street who don't get a special name because I don't give a fuck about them or their deranged boss'."

"Wow, who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?"

"What?"

"You're being even more testy than usual. Which, for you, is really saying something. Did Tex dump you again?"

"She didn't dump me! We're just... taking a break."

"Dude, everyone knows that 'taking a break' is code for 'broken up but in denial about it'. Besides, that's exactly what she said last time."

"Yeah and we got back together, didn't we?"

"For two months."

"Fuck off!"

"Seriously, Church, you've been dating off and on since senior year, don't you think you should move on and find a new girlfriend? Take it from me: at our age, a long term relationship will only hold you back from getting to explore all your options."

"That would almost sound like good advice coming from anyone else, but knowing you, you're just talking about fucking as many people as possible."

"You know it, dude!"

"Trust me, Tucker, you are the _last_ person I would come to for dating advice."

"Oh come on, I score all the time! I can totally help you pick up chicks."

"I am not interested in picking up chicks!"

"Then I can help you pick up dudes? No judgement."

"I am not interested in picking up _anyone!_ "

Tucker readies a reply, but is interrupted by the soft jingle of the front door being opened. The two of them instinctively put their argument on hold in preparation for a customer. They can at least _pretend_ to be professional.

In walks a guy with wide eyes and messy brown hair that sticks out in every direction. He's unreasonably tall, and built like a football player. He airily scans his environment, as if he's never seen the inside of a gas station before, and after what feels to Church like an eternity, finally spots him and Tucker at the counter.

"Hello," the guy says cheerfully, "is this the blue store? The Flower Man told me to come to the blue store, but it doesn't look very blue on the inside. But the sign was blue, and you are wearing blue shirts, so I am thinking this is where he meant."

Tucker raises an eyebrow and shoots a confused look at Church, who returns it with a shrug.

"And... who are you, exactly?" asks Church, cocking his head.

"Oh! I forgot to introduce myself! My name is Michael J. Caboose."

"So, Michael—"

"Oh, no one calls me Michael. Most people call me Caboose! Except for the people who call me Mike. Or Mikey. Or Get-Off-Me-Property-Before-I-Shoot-Ye," he says the last line in a terrible pirate accent.

"Ooookaaaaay... let's just stick with Caboose. Assuming by 'Flower Man' you mean our boss, what'd he send you for?"

"Well, my mom told me that I should get a job, and this job said that it needed someone to get it, so I got it. I had to go on the website, and fill out an application, and go to an interview, and—"

"Wait wait wait," Tucker interjects, "You actually interviewed? As in, with our boss? With _Flowers_?"

"HA! He's still alive!" declares Church, jabbing his index finger at Tucker, "you owe me ten bucks!" 

"This doesn't count! It's not solid proof!" Tucker protests.

"For the last time, Tucker, if Flowers is dead, then who the hell is writing our paychecks?"

"Dude, I'm telling you, it's this whole conspiracy—"

"Anyways," Church says, cutting him off, "obviously he's alive, because newbie over here says he interviewed with him."

"But how do we know it was _really_ Flowers? Maybe it was a ghost, or a changeling, or a doppelganger—"

" _Anyways_ ," Church says again, turning towards Caboose, "I guess you're hired or whatever. Not like I give a shit if you're actually on roll; I'm not the one paying you. Do you have a uniform already?"

"Was I supposed to bring a unicorn? Because I do not know where to get one of those. They are probably extinct."

"What? I said 'uniform' not- You know what? Nevermind. What's your shirt size?"

 

* * *

 

The next morning comes and goes as usual, with customers showing up in small waves on their way to work, or summer vacation, or wherever they're headed on the interstate. Now, things are once again crawling along at a snail's pace, and the temperature is steadily rising both inside and outside of the store.

"Man," Grif says, wiping his brow on his sleeve, "we should really get a better AC."

"It could be worse," Simmons replies, "we could have no AC at all."

"Don't say that, you're gonna jinx us!"

"I'm not jinxing us, dumbass. I'm just stating a hypothetical situation in which we have no air conditioning. If I was jinxing us, I would have said something like, 'I sure hope our shitty AC unit doesn't break from overuse'."

"Aaauugh! Stop tempting fate! Knock on wood or something!"

"Since when are you so superstitious?"

"Since me not dying of heatstroke depends on it."

"Don't be such a baby—"

"Excuse me, uh, sirs?" asks an unfamiliar voice.

"Sirs?" Grif echoes at the same time as Simmons answers, "Yes?"

"I just got hired here, and I was wondering if I could talk to the manager?" says the voice's source, a young-looking blond guy.

"Sorry man, he's not coming back in until tomorrow," Grif says, "Ain't nobody in charge today."

"Grif, I just told you yesterday that I'm in charge whenever he's gone," Simmons huffs.

"Yeah, and you're still not a real manager, so I still don't have to listen to you."

Simmons rolls his eyes, then turns to the new guy, "So, what's your name, kid?"

"Franklin Delano Donut, at your service!" he says, and salutes.

"Donut? Seriously?" Grif mocks.

"Yup!" he replies cheerfully, not seeming to read Grif's tone.

"How old are you?" Simmons asks.

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen? Are you still in high school?"

"Nope, just graduated! I'm ready to face the adult world head-on!"

"Hate to break it to you," Grif says, "but we aren't exactly what you would call 'adults'."

"Speak for yourself," Simmons snaps.

"Oh, please. We're only twenty. We can't even buy the alcohol we sell to people."

"Yeah, well, _some of us_ take pride in our maturity."

Grif snorts.

"Besides," Simmons continues, "I'm older than you."

"By what, five months?"

"Six months."

"Whatever."

"Um, not to interrupt," says Donut, "but what exactly am I supposed to be doing?"

"Well, we don't have any customers, and the store's pretty clean... so, uh, nothing, I guess," Grif shrugs.

"When do I get a cool uniform like you guys have?"

"Ask Sarge. I don't know where he keeps them."

"Do you think I'll get one in a good colour? I want one that compliments my complexion!"

"I mean, there aren't a whole lot of options," Simmons says, "We're kind of limited to different shades of red."

"But his shirt is yellow," Donut points at Grif's chest.

"What? _Yellow?_ My shirt is orange!"

"Okay, but orange still isn't really red. I took an art class once; it's in a totally different spot on the colour wheel!"

"Fuck you."

"I dunno, Grif, he has a point," Simmons says, smirking.

"It's close enough, alright? And I happen to _like_ orange."

"Wait," Donut says, "is your name Grif? I thought it was Dexter, like your tag says."

"Grif is my surname, dumbass."

"Ohhhh. Why don't you put that on your name tag then if that's what people call you? Do you call everyone here by their surname? I thought you were supposed to use first names in customer service, since it creates a stronger sense of intimacy with the client."

"Look," Simmons says, growing annoyed, "we just call each other by last name sometimes, okay? There's no real reason for it. Customers use our first names; that's why they're on our tags."

"So... are you guys gonna call me Donut instead of Franklin?"

"I guess?"

"I'd rather not," Grif says.

Donut doesn't seem to hear him, "Sweet! It'll be just like having a stage name!"

Grif and Simmons exchange looks. It's going to be a long shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said when I first wrote this back in 2017, Blood Gulch is based on multiple real places that I have lived or been to. I thought it was fitting to set it in Texas because A, it's what I'm familiar with, having lived here my whole life, and B, Rooster Teeth is located in Austin (my birth city!).
> 
> Funnily enough, the thing that happened that made me not have time to work on this back then was that I got employed at a gas station. I think there's a bit of irony somewhere in there. Anyways, I worked there for a year and a half, and now I am intimately familiar with the life of a ~Guest Service Associate~, and updated some stuff in this fic to be more... realistic, I guess.
> 
> This first chapter mirrors a lot of stuff that happens in the first five seasons, but as it goes on the story will ween itself off of canon references and evolve into it's own entity; I just felt like it helps set up a good tone and foundation.


	2. Spare Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To paraphrase Smash Mouth, we could all use a little bit of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just caught up with Singularity and all I gotta say is: holy shit.
> 
> Anyways I'm not gonna bother giving this a super regimented update schedule. Just expect each new chapter about two weeks after the previous one, give or take a few days. My life's kinda crazy right now so I can't guarantee anything lol
> 
> EDIT: Yeeeaaahhhh... I'm not even gonna try to give this any kind update schedule. I'll work on it when I can. Sorry ><;;

There is not enough coffee in the world to make up for how early Church has to get up for this bullshit. The sky is still dark as he pulls his car into the parking lot of the familiar hellhole he calls his workplace, and the sun won't rise for another half hour or so. Normally, he'd at least have Tucker to complain to, but he's not scheduled to come in until later. He could hear the smug bastard snoring as he'd dragged himself around their apartment at five-thirty in the fucking morning.

His piece-of-shit car groans as he turns off the ignition. He leans back in his seat for a moment, contemplating how bad it would be if he just turned around and went back home. Unfortunately, he still needs a paycheck, so he downs the rest of his coffee and kicks open the car door.

As usual, it seems Flowers has already been here, because the store is all prepped for opening. The computers are booted up, gas prices have been updated — corporate is really anal about keeping the gas prices updated — and cash drawers have been set.

Also as usual, Flowers himself is nowhere to be found.

 _He must have just left_ , Church thinks, because there's no fucking way a dead guy did all this. What, was he a ghost or something? Ghosts don't even exist! Well, maybe they do. Church likes to think that when he dies, he'll come back as a ghost, if for no other reason than to haunt the asses of all the people who piss him off. Man, he's gonna have a busy afterlife. But that's besides the point! The point is, there aren't any ghosts here, let alone any _managing a goddamn business_. Flowers is alive. Tucker is full of shit. End of story.

Church unlocks the front door, steps inside, and flips on the main lights. There aren't any customers waiting to be let in, thank god. He hates when they do that. Standing outside the door, pressing their ugly faces against the glass, trying to get his attention as if he doesn't already know they're there. Shouting at him is not gonna open up the store any faster, jackass! You're just gonna have to wait the fifteen minutes to get your caffeine fix like everyone else!

Why did he decide to do customer service again?

Right. Money.

Money for rent. Money for school. Money for gas to get to school.

 _Money is enough incentive to put up with just about anything_ , Church thinks as he clocks into the store computer,  _Though, free food is a pretty good alternative_.

Church spends about half the week on first shift and half the week on second shift, just depending on where he's needed. That's the downside to being team leader, he supposes, but hopefully with the new guy on the schedule, he can finally get some goddamn consistency, especially with classes starting up again soon. Speaking of the new guy, Church wonders if he'll be coming in again today. It's the middle of the week, and the new schedule won't get put up until Friday, so it's a possibility. Just another fucking unknown variable in his pathetic excuse for a life.

But today's also truck day. Which means that at least two people are needed for when the shipment comes in. And with Tucker on second shift and the new guy — what was his name again? Carlos? — being unaccounted for, that means he's working with…

Fuck.

Speak of the devil, a jet-black motorcycle whips into the parking lot and pulls into the space right next to Church's decaying Toyota, shaming it by comparison. It's rider, not to be outdone, sets out the kickstand and dismounts in one smooth movement. She pulls off her helmet with a sharp roll of her head, her blond ponytail whipping to the side like a threat.

So fucking dramatic.

She looks up and makes eye-contact with Church, who is suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he's been staring at her through the window. He doesn't bother to try and read her expression, instead turning away and glaring at the floor.

Tex struts in, and does not acknowledge Church as she makes her way directly into the back room to set down her helmet and take off her jacket.

"What, not even a 'hello'?" Church mutters.

"I thought you weren't speaking to me," Tex says coldly, coming back into the cashwrap.

"I didn't say that."

"No, I'm pretty sure you said exactly that. Word for word."

"Okay, fine, whatever, maybe I did. But we still have to work together, so while we don't have to be friendly, we don't have to be _un_ friendly, and we should probably hold off on trying to kill each other for at least the next eight hours."

"Wow, look who got mature all of a sudden," she says, and gives him a half-smile that tells him she's being sincere.

"I know, almost like I'm a fucking adult now or something."

"Almost."

She teasing him, Church knows, but she should have lost that right when she broke it off with him again the other night- no, no, they're not broken up, they're just "taking a break", remember? And it was mutual! They'll get back together, they just need to — how did she put it? — they just need to take some time to live their own lives for a bit. Grow as individuals. And if they're really meant to be together — which they are! — then things will work out, and they'll find their way back to one another.

And Church knows she's right. He'll never admit it, but he knows she's right. And she knows he knows. That's what pisses him off so much.

 _That's why we need space_ , she'd said. _At this rate, we're going to suffocate each other._

"Truck's late," Tex remarks casually, nodding towards the small clock at the bottom of the register's POS.

"Truck's always late," Church says, as if nothing else has changed, either.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, what about this one!" Donut says, pulling out one of the many red shirts from the plastic bin that's been placed on the counter. "It looks about my size!"

"Uh, no," Grif says.

"Why not? By the looks of these, this shade seems to be standard."

"Because the only person who actually wears the standard red is Sarge. He called 'dibs' on it, and trust me, you do _not_ wanna argue with that man once he gets on his 'dibs' bullshit."

"The 'International Dibs Protocol'," Simmons recalls.

"Point taken. What about you, though?" Donut nods towards Simmons, " _You're_  wearing a red shirt."

"No, _my_ shirt is maroon," Simmons corrects, "There's a difference. Besides, wearing a red shirt is bad luck."

"Bad luck?" repeats Grif, "Now who's being superstitious? This isn't Star Trek, you fucking nerd."

"Hey, you don't know that I was talking about Star Trek! I could've been referring to anything!"

"Oh yeah? Enlighten me then, Simmons: what _were_ you talking about?"

"...Okay fine I was talking about Star Trek."

"Nerd."

"But you got the reference! That makes you a nerd, too."

"Understanding entry-level sci fi references doesn't make me a nerd, it just makes me familiar with pop culture. And you were the one who made it in the first place, which makes you _way_ more of a nerd than I'll ever be."

"Okay guys," Donut puts the shirt down and digs around in the bin some more, "I don't want to get sandwiched between you two here—"

Simmons snaps his head back towards Donut, "What!?"

"—but most of these are way too big for me, so it doesn't look like I have a lot of options. Oh! Oh! Here we go!" he holds up another shirt, "this one is perfect!"

"Oh, uh…" Simmons stares at Donut's choice incredulously, "are you… _sure_ about that one? Don't you think it's a little…"

Donut rolls his eyes, "Well of _course_ it's a 'little', I already told you guys, I'm a men's small!"

"No, what I mean is…" Simmons trails off again, "er, how do I put this… Grif, help me out here."

"It's freakin' pink," Grif says.

"What? No it's not!" Donut protests.

"It's definitely pink," Simmons says.

"You guys are colour-blind," Donut waves his hand dismissively, "This is more like a… uh… like a lightish red!"

It's unclear if the shirt was intentionally dyed that colour, or if it was once white and had just been group washed with the rest of the uniforms too many times. Regardless, there is no doubt about it's current state: a warm hue somewhere between "rose" and "bubblegum".

"Well you're in luck," Grif says, "They already _have_ a name for 'lightish red'. You know what it's called? _Pink_."

"Well, I respectfully disagree!" Donut huffs as he folds it over his arm, "And I think I would know my colours; I took an art class, remember? I'm gonna go see how it looks."

Before Grif or Simmons can get in any more comments, Donut heads off into the bathroom to change.

"I bet the Blues don't have to put up with this," Simmons mutters as soon as Donut is out of earshot.

 

* * *

 

"Seriously? She said that to you?" Tucker asks as he counts in his drawer.

"Yeah," Church says, "and then yesterday she had the nerve to act like we're all cool now or something! I'll tell ya, I'm getting _pretty_ tired of this whole 'being the bigger person' schtick. It almost makes me miss when we'd have real fights."

"That's why I keep telling you that you need to move on! She was always way out of your league anyways. I mean, look at you. The only reason a bombshell like that would go for someone like you is because she has low self esteem, and needs someone to make her look better."

Church adjusts his glasses defensively, "Actually, _Tucker_ —"

"Relax, dude; I'm not calling you ugly. I'm just _saying_ that she's like an 8 or a 9, and you're like—"

"Tucker. I'm gonna need you to stop talking. Right now. Before I slam your fingers into that register."

"Alright, too far, sorry, jeez!" Tucker throws his hands up away from the drawer, "I _mean_ that now that she's getting over her problems, she's gonna realize that you're one of 'em. You should get with someone who's best matches your best, because once Tex realizes that she can do better, you're gonna be left in the dust."

Church clenches his fists, angry, then unclenches them, defeated, "I know."

"Which is why you should definitely let me be your wingman."

"For the _last_ time, Tucker, I do not need your help with women!"

"My dad gave me advice about women once," Caboose interrupts from behind, causing both Church and Tucker to jump, "he said, 'why by the cow, when you can get the milk for free'?"

"Jesus christ!" Tucker claps a hand over his chest, "When did you get here?"

"Yeah, when did—" Church registers what was just said, and narrows his eyes, "Wait a sec. Did you just call my girlfriend a _cow?_ "

"No, I think he called her a slut!"

"Yeah, I… I don't really know what that means," Caboose says with complete sincerity.

"Listen newbie," Church grits his teeth, "I could sit here and listen to you insult my girlfriend all goddamn day. Tucker does it practically all the time. But as it turns out, I've got an important job for you to do."

Caboose's eyes widen and he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, "like a  _secret mission?_ "

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Anyways, you know our boss?"

"The Flower Man?"

"Yeah. Him. See, sometimes he likes to stop by the store, and do like a uh… random inspection. Y'know, make sure everything's in order. So what I'm gonna have _you_ do, is I'm gonna have you go in the back, and just kinda… wait for him to get here. Because when he gets here, that's the first area he's gonna check out."

"When is he coming by?"

"We never know," Tucker adds, catching on quickly, "Could be today, could be a week from now."

"Oh. A whole week? Do I get to go home sometimes?"

"You know," says Church, "you don't sound very grateful. This is the most important job in the whole store. You're gonna be right there with all of the product."

"Product?"

"Didn't they teach you anything at orientation? 'Product' as in everything we sell to people. All the shit that goes on the shelves. Without it, we don't _have_ a store to run. That's why it's so important that you go back there, and make sure that nothing gets moved out of place."

"Yeah," Tucker backs him up, "it's like, _really_ important."

"So, go on, get going. All the way in the back. Far away from us," Church shoos him with his hand.

"Uh, how will I know which one is him?"

"He'll be the guy who doesn't look like either of us, idiot," Tucker gestures between himself and Church.

"Yeah," Church agrees, "now get in there, _and don't come out_."

Caboose still seems kind of confused, but starts heading towards the back anyways. As he reaches the doorway, he pauses and turns around, "Um, Church?"

"Oh my god, _what?_ "

"Sorry about… uh… milking your slut."

"OH MY _GOD_. Shut up! Just. Shut up!! And get back there!!"

Tucker lets out a _pffffffff_.

"Hey, are you laughin' at me?" Church turns to glare at Tucker.

"Nope, nope," Tucker grins, trying to contain himself, "just glad Tex isn't here."

"I wonder if I could pay her to kill him for me."

"If she'd heard him say that, she'd probably do it for free."

 

* * *

 

"Okay, Donut, here's the deal," Simmons says, looking him in the eye and putting on his best serious face.

"I still refuse to call him that," Grif says.

"We've got a super important job for you to do. Think you can handle it?"

"Absolutely!" Donut says confidently.

"You know Blue's across the street?"

"Yeah?"

"See, they've got some products that they sell that we don't, so we need you to go over there and pick up some stuff for us."

"Okay, what do you need me to get?"

"Two quarts of elbow grease."

"Yeah," Grif nods, "and, uh, pick up a few bottles of headlight fluid while you're there."

"Um… alright. What should I use to buy it?"

"Oh, here," Simmons fishes out his own wallet and hands Donut a five dollar bill.

"Will this be enough?"

"Yeah, it's not that expensive. Now get going; if Sarge comes in tomorrow and we don't have this stuff, he's gonna be _real_ unhappy."

"But take your time looking for it," Grif adds quickly, "Don't feel like you have to hurry back."

Donut, accepting his duty, waves at them as he walks backwards, then turns around at the last minute to push his way out the door. He heads out into the parking lot, and into the summer heat.

"Did you seriously just pay someone five dollars to go away?" Grif asks Simmons, "I would've just taken it out of the register."

"That's called _stealing_ , Grif," Simmons replies. "And besides, it's not like he'll actually be able to buy any of that stuff. Worst case scenario he uses it to get a soda or something and gives me the change. How long do you think it'll take him to realize they don't sell elbow grease?"

"Hopefully at least a few hours."

 

* * *

 

"Elbow grease?" Donut says to himself as he waits for a clearing to cross the highway, "How stupid do these guys think I am? Once I come back with that headlight fluid, I'm gonna talk to the manager."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Church does not necessarily have healthy ideas about his relationship to Tex. None of these idiots really have healthy ideas about relationships, if we're being honest. This is what character development is for!
> 
> Anyways, sorry for getting into the angst quicker than expected. I found my original draft for Chapter 2 and a good portion of the first scene had already been written. I liked it too much to chunk it, and couldn't find a better place to fit it in the story. Hopefully the silliness of the next chapter will make up for it.
> 
> This chapter ended up being kind of Church-centric (and Chex-centric by extension), but don't worry, all of the main characters will get their turn in the spotlight!


End file.
